Living Life
by AlterEgoSadist
Summary: He was a child living the life of a man. He was a man living the life of a child. A comparison story featuring Hitokiri Battosai, Shinta, and Himura Kenshin.


Living Life

Irises. Her favorite flower. And indeed, she was like them. Soft and delicate, almost fragile, surrounded by strangers, yet somehow managing to live with them, adapting to their customs. Composed of many different layers, all hidden under a carefully-shaped mask of beauty and serenity. He hopes she accepts them. Kneeling down on the patch of dirt beside her grave, he picks up the shovel resting nearby and digs a hole…

**Then places the body into it, making sure that the mass of flesh and bone is facing upright. Brushing his fingers gently over the woman's once sparkling eyes-digits tiny compared to her long and slender ones- he climbs out of the pit and then proceeds to cover up the gap by pushing the mound of dirt, which had accumulated while he was digging, into it. His amethyst eyes, betraying no emotions whatsoever, scan the forest lying behind him. Then, gripping the handle of the sword more securely, he walks into the wooded area. Pausing before a tree, he lays both of his hands upon the hilt of the blade, rusted and stained with blood, cocks his limbs back and swings…**

The hatchet buries itself into the trunk. With a quick jerk, he tugs the sharp edge out of the wood and places the two halves of the log on top of the stack of firewood beside him. His surroundings are nothing but tranquil, filled with shouts, the sharp _thwack _of bokken hitting shinai, as well as flesh, and occasional peals of laughter as people did their training administered in the dojo. Grabbing another chunk of timber, he raises the axe…

**And brings the blade downward with all his strength. The movement promptly slices the man in two, blood gushing out of both parts as he falls to the ground, motionless. Stepping forward, he disposes another Shisengumi soldier in the same manner, and then whirls around, his sword a deadly arc as it connected with the neck of a third officer, separating his head from his body. Ending tonight's killing spree with the dispatch of the fourth and final member of the patrol squad, thanks to a swift stab aimed at his gut, he withdraws his blade out of the man's inert form and flicks off the crimson liquid that so regularly adorned the end of his weapon. Settling the steel into its sheath, the teenager turns away and begins to calmly walk back to the inn that posed as the Ishin Shishi's headquarters. Stopping to clean his stained hands in a bucket of water, he snatches a washcloth dangling out of the side of the container and presses it to his bleeding cheek, staring at the red imprint left when he lifts it away. He is startled out of his thoughts when his sharp ears hear his name being called…**

And looks up to see her face in his line of vision. She is watching him carefully, features lined with concern and puzzlement, obviously wondering what was on his mind. He gives her a smile to reassure her, along with a short verbal response that he is fine, and then resumes his gaze over the river, eyes fixed on the clear water trailing slowly downwards, ahead of his footsteps. Not entirely satisfied with his response, she trudges alongside him, though presses the matter no further. Silence stretches between the two as they amble down the path, sandals scuffing against the dirt. Glancing up at the woman adjacent to him, the red-haired samurai notices that she is wearing her usual yellow kimono, her midnight-black hair tied into a high ponytail with her favorite indigo ribbon. Ah, how beautiful she looks…

**Covered in blood. Droplets splashed upon her face, coating her snow-white kimono and purple shawl with gore that poured in endless sheets from the night sky. Her skin, pale-Was it natural? Or had she turned that color out of fear?-glowed in the moonlight, smooth and flawless. And her eyes…They were coal-black, held no shine of emotion at all. It was like looking into a pair of holes-voids that, once you were in, could never get out of, no matter how hard you tried. There was a scent that lingered around her, a sweet smell that was almost sickening to inhale, and an odor that intoxicated him. An aroma that permanently engraved itself into his nostrils when she collapsed in his arms, and sent his mind reeling as he half-drags, half-carries her back to the inn, leaving no trace of their existence save for the mutilated corpse of the assassin and her umbrella…**

He had brought one with him, though clearly it was only for_ his_ benefit. Apparently, he did not care whether his baka deshi caught a cold, and if he did, he deems it an appropriate consequence for his carelessness. Standing out in the rain that drummed down on his head, he stares at the gravestone, red hair shielding his face from the water, his scar exposed. For a while, he does just that, thoughts swirling around in his mind, replying to his shishou's questions in a thoughtful, composed manner. Of course, he understands why she had to die: So that he could live. So that he could repent for his sins. So that he could protect the ones he loves. But not only that: Now, for him, she represented the reason why he had come here, after ten whole years. Here was both a beginning and an end, a final decision that only he could make, a choice that would end his journeys as a rurouni for good. For the result would be that he would move on, and have something he had left behind in the midst of war…

**A home. Never once in his life had he considered the chance to lay down his sword and pick up a rake, to make use of the farming techniques that his father had taught him all those years ago. And yet, here he was, plowing through the dirt, carving smooth, straight lines into the soil that would eventually be their garden. The sun beats down upon his head as he works, sweat dripping from his forehead and trickling down his arms, the sleeves of his dark blue gi neatly pulled back, tied there by lengths of string that encircled his shoulders. A soft breeze rustles his hair, cooling him momentarily. He pauses in his labor and glances at his wife, squatted on the ground. She is planting seeds, watchfully placing the tiny kernels into the holes she'd dug within the earth. He gazes at her lovingly; marveling at the way the wind caressed her hair and made the sleeves of her snow-white kimono flutter…**

The shirts wave happily like a banner, buffeted by the drafts of warm air that blew throughout the dojo. Laughter and chatter fill his ears as his companions, all inside the confines of the building, ate lunch, happily munching on _ohagi _and guzzling down the tea that the doctor had been so kind to make for them. He knows that by the time he finishes with the laundry and goes indoors for a break that none of either will remain for him, yet he doesn't mind, being neither hungry nor thirsty in the first place. Straightening up from his hunched position over the wooden tub overfilled with water and soap, he snaps out the sheet he'd been washing, a satisfied smile brightening his features at the cleanliness of the piece of cloth.

"White!" He states aloud.

Two voices, both standing beside him, echo his cry.

"White!"

"White!"

**White. It was the color that filled his vision wherever he looked, that fell from the cloudy sky and covered the ground with its soft, fluffy flakes. A color that was draped around the body of his dead wife, even as the rosy blush faded from her cheeks and her skin grew as cold as the snow she was laying on. A color that contrasted with the darkness of her formerly bright eyes, that differed from the stain of dark-red blood garnishing her previously untarnished kimono. Blood flowed from his face and dripped onto her still features as he held her, weeping silently, wondering why, after all he'd done, that she was smiling. **

She was happy. He could tell that much, from the glint in her eyes and the way her body moved: There was a slight hop in her step when she walked. His eyes roam over her slender figure, searching for something out of place that could be the cause of her contentment. They immediately pause at the sight of the box in her hands, curiosity glittering in their depths. Yet he does not ask as she strolls into the entrance, humming softly, her head turning from side to side, glancing around the area for anyone present. She spots him seated in front of the dojo, leaning against one of the poles that held the structure upright, his sakabato nestled in the crook of his arm, and heads towards him. He looks up at her face and smiles, welcoming her back from her trip in town, his gaze fixed on the cubical container she held all the while. As if sensing his interest, she opens the package, revealing rows upon rows of colorful _mochi_, each made by scratch, exquisitely hand-decorated and filled with sweet _anko_. She beams at his reaction, savoring the way his eyes widened in surprise, mouth parted in a show of astonishment, and stretches out her arms, offering one to him. He accepts the present, fingers gently selecting a piece of the delightful treat, cradling the delicacy in the palm of his hand. He hesitates, and then chooses a second, this time holding the dessert out to her. She blinks in shock at the sudden display of kindness. Her lips split into a smile, and after lightly sliding the box onto the platform does she take the small pastry given, placing her form next to his. The two eat the food silently, relishing the quiet minute that had with each other.

Night falls, and she sidles closer to him, resting her head atop his shoulder, the empty box of sweets discarded. Her bright blue eyes close, her breathing gradually becoming slow and heavy as she begins to slumber peacefully. He gazes down at her, amused, stroking her dark hair while his love slept. It was in that moment that he realizes the true source of her happiness:

Making _him_ happy.

**Author's Note: This was just something that popped into my head one day and refused to go away, so I decided to take a stab at it and see what came out. Being pleased with the results, I decided to post it here. I know the format is very confusing, but the initial idea was to alternate between the lives of Hitokiri Battosai/Shinta and Himura Kenshin, bold being what the first experienced, and normal layout being what the latter experienced. **

**I've always had the concept that Shinta, though being only a child, was accomplishing things that a grown-up usually did, such as digging graves, working in the fields, etc. That notion was only more enforced when Kenshin left Hiko and became Hitokiri Battosai and killed people, something that a normal fifteen-year-old should never have been able to do. (Then again, Kenshin isn't a normal human being…). On the other hand, Kenshin, being age twenty-eight and a mature man, was living the life of a kid: he does chores, helps people out, eats desserts and hangs out with Sanosuke, Yahiko, Kaoru, Misao, Megumi and Aoshi (who are all much younger than him) all in all having a good time. The entire perception was considered insanely ironic to me, and I chose to write a little piece about it, hence, this. I would love thoughts on this, so any reviews are welcomed (Flames aren't, however). **

**As always, I do NOT own Rurouni Kenshin. It belongs to Nobuhiro Watsuki. **


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